


Reasonable Accommodation

by SouthernContinentSkies



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Cultural Differences, F/M, Happy Ending, Insecurity, M/M, Multi, Non-Monogamy, Relationship Negotiation, Secret Relationship, Threesome, from the public not each other, hints of D/s on the Gregor/Ivan axis, it's not a secret from Gregor though, secretly-competent Ivan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:02:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22561441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernContinentSkies/pseuds/SouthernContinentSkies
Summary: Laisa wants to marry Gregor, but if it’s going to work out, the standard Barrayaran marriage framework is going to need to bend a little. Fortunately, Gregor was raised by a Betan.
Relationships: Gregor Vorbarra/Ivan Vorpatril, Gregor Vorbarra/Laisa Toscane Vorbarra, Gregor Vorbarra/Laisa Toscane Vorbarra/Ivan Vorpatril, Laisa Toscane Vorabarra/Ivan Vorpatril
Comments: 37
Kudos: 112
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Reasonable Accommodation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [james](https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/gifts).



> For james for Chocolate Box 2020, who asked for Gregor/Ivan/Laisa and “something to make me feel happy by the end.” Hope this scratches that itch!
> 
> Many thanks to [@philomytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/pseuds/Philomytha) for the beta!
> 
> Also, for the Marriage square on my Round 14 Trope Bingo card.

In the parlor of her technologically baffling but otherwise well-appointed Vorbarr Sultana flat - she was still nonplussed by how many Barrayaran homes had their comconsoles in the public rooms - Laisa regarded the most recent message from the Residence with trepidation. 

It was an invitation from Gregor promising “a garden luncheon, weather permitting, in company” at the Residence. In general, this sounded lovely; she certainly wanted to spend more time with him, and the various friends and relatives hovering as relatively unobtrusive chaperones had all been more or less delightful.

The problem was, at their last meeting - no, date. In this context especially, certainly a date. On their last date, Gregor had asked her a question - _the_ question, in fact. And the trouble with the arrival of this newest invitation was, she wasn’t at all sure she could answer it.

On Komarr, young couples considering bonding usually took months, and sometimes years, to come to that conclusion. It should have been shocking to Laisa’s comparatively staid Komarran sensibilities that it had taken only three weeks, and five face-to-face encounters, for the Emperor of Barrayar to propose to her, and for her to be seriously considering his proposal. On the other hand, she had fallen in love with his home planet without ever having set foot on it, so perhaps it was not so surprising after all that it had taken her such a short time to fall in love with him.

Unfortunately, love was not necessarily enough. 

The speed was not the problem, by itself. If it were, she could simply ask for more time, which she knew he would give her without hesitation. What she wanted to ask for instead would probably end their relationship entirely. She didn’t want to do that; the very idea hurt. But she couldn’t sit through another painstakingly choreographed social event, sitting between a Family Connection and an Obligatory Duenna, exchanging benign pleasantries and killing time until they could scrape some privacy for more meaningful conversation, while this issue sat unaddressed between them. 

Steeling herself to reality, she activated the comconsole to accept Gregor’s invitation. She would go to lunch; she would make polite conversation with whatever cousin or Academy friend was in attendance; she would stare with embarrassing fondness into Gregor’s warm, dark eyes - and then she would have to give him her answer.

* * *

When she arrived at the Residence a few days later, she was shown straight through to the garden that occupied what she had to call the interior courtyard, though it was large enough that the word “courtyard” hardly applied, especially in comparison to anything under the domes. On the patio, screened from the larger expanse of lawns and flowers by a series of precisely pruned hedges, stood a delicate white metal dining set. 

The table was set for five, and Laisa noted with some amusement that it was set with three on one side and two on the other, rather than the more obvious arrangement of two, two, and one at the head. The latter set-up would of course have placed the Emperor at the head of the table, and she had come to realize very quickly that Gregor shunned any suggestion of a hierarchical spotlight when it was not absolutely required. Also, the three-and-two arrangement would make it easier for the two of them to talk amongst themselves, without being overtly rude to their table-mates. Laisa sensed Lady Alys Vorpatril’s deft hand at work in the arrangement, and was not overly surprised to see the woman herself emerging from another door just after Laisa had been announced.

With Lady Alys were two other people Laisa hadn’t met: a nondescript-looking man in a well-cut but rather boring suit, and a pleasant-faced woman in a lovely green dress who appeared to be his wife. Lady Alys introduced them as the Count and Countess Vorvolk, Henri and Olga. Count Vorvolk was Gregor’s own age, and the two of them had apparently been in the same class at the Imperial Service Academy. Laisa resolved to extract whatever tales of embarrassing schoolboy exploits might exist, later - until she remembered, with a pang, that today would quite likely be her last opportunity to do so.

Gregor arrived while they were finishing the introductions, with apologies for his nonexistent tardiness, rather fewer-than-usual armed guards - perhaps he’d been able to leave a few of them indoors - and a small but brilliant smile for Laisa, which she returned in kind, despite her anxiety. Between the general social niceties, and the forms of social protocol that even the most informal of Vor gatherings seemed to require, Laisa knew there would be no opportunity for meaningful conversation between the two of them until they were seated, and possibly not even then.

When they were seated, it was according to what Laisa now recognized as the general Vor protocol, with allowances for the uneven number and the unusual table layout. Laisa, Count Vorvolk, and Lady Alys sat along one side of the table, with Gregor and Countess Vorvolk opposite. Laisa was grateful for this arrangement, as the resulting angles made it essentially impossible for Lady Alys to sit in judgment on her posture, her table manners, or anything else a high Vor matron might find suitable fodder for criticism. Not that Lady Alys would give voice to any such criticism, of course - or at least, not to Laisa. But it was very difficult to relax in the presence of someone who not only spoke as a native language all the cultural nuances Laisa had been trying to learn herself for years, but who was essentially the curator of the dictionary. However friendly Gregor might assure Laisa that she was, Lady Alys Vorpatril was still exceptionally intimidating.

In contrast, the Count and Countess Vorvolk turned out to be unexpectedly approachable. Laisa’s initial impression of Count Vorvolk as a bright mind behind a bland exterior was immediately reinforced by the information that he was a certified accountant, with a position in Imperial Accounting itself. Her exposure to the more quantitative underpinnings of business and international trade had given her an appreciation of just how intelligent, and how _interesting_ , even the more academic experts could be, under the misleading layers of inattention to social graces and unfashionable clothing. Count Vorvolk’s social position prevented him from descending too far on either metric - or perhaps it was the efforts of his wife - but he was still cast from a mold that filled Laisa with an unexpected rush of nostalgia for her university days.

Eventually, during a spirited exchange about the relative merits of Komarran versus Escobaran inventory management practices, Laisa realized that it had been several minutes since any of their table companions had said anything. When she turned to look, very grateful now not to be sitting directly across from Lady Alys, Gregor was looking back at her. The edges of his mouth turned upward only slightly, but the look in his eyes was deeply, distractedly fond. 

Countess Vorvolk was directing a similar expression at her husband, though in her case the besotted blur of new romance had clearly given way to the well-worn affection of a long-standing relationship.

“Oh, sorry,” said Count Vorvolk, looking up as well. “Was I going on again?”

“Just a bit, dear,” his wife replied, with good humor. She and Gregor shared what appeared to be a familiar look of long-suffering amusement.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Gregor said, turning back to Laisa with a small but quite contented smile. She couldn’t help but smile back.

For the rest of the meal, Laisa and Count Vorvolk made an effort to join the rest of the table, and the subsequent conversation was dominated by childhood memories and stories of Gregor and Henri’s mutual acquaintances, including, to Laisa’s delight, several humorous incidents from Gregor’s Academy years.

“Of course, we’re laughing now,” said Count Vorvolk, after one of these. “But it took some time until I stopped flinching whenever Gaspar Vorrutyer walked into the room.”

“I thought that was because you had a portrait of his cousin in your locker,” said Gregor, with an air of faux-innocence.

Count Vorvolk’s expression became subtly mortified. “Yes, well,” he said, sneaking a look at his wife, who was merely amused. “That was seventeen years and three husbands ago.”

When the excellent chilled cream tarts had been reduced to crumbs, and the last anecdote had wound to its natural conclusion, Gregor and Lady Alys exchanged looks. 

“What a lovely day it’s turned out to be,” said Lady Alys, managing to sound not at all like she was reading from a script.

“Isn’t it?” said Gregor. “I thought I’d show Laisa the Six-Pointed Starbursts - from Sergyar, you know. They should be blooming nicely, with all the rain we’ve had.”

Countess Vorvolk, taking her own cue, suggested to her husband that they take the opportunity to go and see the new greenhouses - which happened, by sheer coincidence, to be in the opposite direction from the Sergyaran flowerbeds.

Lady Alys opted to remain at the table with her tea, and a duenna’s plausible deniability.

“I’m sorry I ran off with Count Vorvolk there for a bit,” Laisa said to Gregor, once they’d escaped hearing distance of the others. “It’s been ages since I’ve been involved with the more technical aspects of the field, and I’d sort of forgotten how inaccessible it can be to other people.”

“There’s no apology necessary,” said Gregor. “That’s exactly why I invited him; I was hoping the two of you would hit it off. And besides -” he turned to face her, his eyes soft, “I could sit and watch you being happy for the rest of my life.”

“Oh,” said Laisa softly. She had to turn away from him, then, pretending transparently to be interested in the tops of the oak trees visible above the hedge. It was the most genuinely romantic sentiment she’d ever heard in her life. Under the circumstances, she felt as though one more word would have her blinking back tears.

Gregor, ever considerate, let her go without comment, giving her space to compose herself.

“Speaking of which,” he said hesitantly, after a moment of silence. “Not to rush you, Laisa - you can take as long as you need, I’m certainly not going anywhere - but I thought I’d ask, just in case. Have you… decided anything?”

She could hear the restrained emotion in his voice, and closed her eyes against it. It was too much. She wanted to look at him now, but couldn’t bring herself to face him until she’d got the words out.

“You’re a wonderful man, Gregor,” she said. “If love were the only question, I would marry you in a heartbeat. But - between personal preferences and, well, political realities, I worry that we’re not compatible.”

“I see.” He took a breath. She turned back to look at him, at last; his diplomat’s mask had come down over his face, shuttering his eyes. “Are you sure it’s not something we could fix?”

These pronouns - she wished she had the Barrayaran ear for them, but she didn’t _think_ he had retreated all the way to Imperial Formal at her. 

“I think it’s Barrayaran culture that’s the problem, actually,” she said - and then hurried on, before he could turn from closed to bleak. “The thing is, I’ve never been happy in a monogamous relationship. And I’d like to say that this time I could be, for you, that I could make it work - but it doesn’t work like that. It’s never worked before, and despite how ridiculously in love with you I am, I can’t reasonably expect it to suddenly work now. I’ve been trying to come to some other conclusion for days, but I’m afraid it is what it is. And even if you were willing, the Empress can’t exactly have lovers, especially a Komarran Empress. It would be a disaster.”

Gregor’s eyebrows had been going up throughout her confession, but his face had been relaxing. “Oh,” he said, once she finished, and then it was his turn to compose himself for a moment. “So it’s not me, then.”

“No!” Laisa hastened to reassure him. “I mean, I assumed you would consider that a dealbreaker, but it’s nothing about _you_.”

“Oh, I don’t have a personal problem with it,” he said dismissively. Laisa blinked. “But unfortunately, you’re right about the politics. Hmm.”

They walked on for a bit. Laisa, blind-sided by this unexpected turn of the conversation, said nothing. She had expected this to be a regretful mutual disentanglement, not a problem-solving session, and now she was out of her depth. She rapidly sorted through her recently-acquired inventory of Barrayaran courting and marriage practices for any helpful guideposts, but found nothing. Perhaps this was more the Betan side - but she knew as much about that planet as she did about Barrayar, and which of those scattered pieces the Regent Consort had seen fit to teach her Imperial foster son, Laisa couldn’t begin to guess.

When the increasing height of the hedges screened them a bit further from the patio, Gregor turned back to her.

“You know,” he began hesitantly, “no one would raise any eyebrows about two women, er, having tea together. I don’t suppose ..?”

Laisa was already shaking her head. “I know, it would be so convenient. But I’m afraid I’m absolutely uninterested in women. Or herms,” she added, “to whatever extent that might possibly be relevant here. It’s really just always been men. Honestly, I was so convinced this would be the end of everything, I hadn’t thought much about how to actually make it work.”

“Yes, speaking of which,” said Gregor, “what sort of ‘not monogamous’ are we talking about, exactly? Just sexual flings, or an entire outside relationship, or what? I’m flexible, I suppose - depending on who the other people are - but some configurations would be... more easily achieved, say, than others.”

Laisa made an equivocating face. “The form is less important than the possibility,” she said. “The main thing is, I can’t be trapped in the position of having all my romantic, and sexual, and personal intimacy needs all fulfilled by the same person. It puts too much pressure on the relationship, and it makes me… well, an obnoxious perfectionist, to be honest. The last man I tried it with broke up with me before I could even get around to it. Which was entirely fair; I was being really pretty horrid to him, and I didn’t even realize it until afterwards.”

Gregor cocked his head, a slight smile playing at his lips. “Really?” he said. “Forgive me, Laisa, I realize this is patronizing - but at the moment, I can’t imagine even your bad humor being anything less than captivating.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You haven’t had to deal with my criticizing every one of your personal choices, for months, for no reason other than a futile effort to make myself feel better. I assure you, it wears.”

Gregor, with a not-entirely-successful effort to suppress his smile, opened his hand in a gesture of assent. 

“And that’s why I’m so adamant about this,” Laisa continued. “Trying to make myself fit into that box brings out the worst in me, and eventually we’d both be miserable.”

There was a pause. Gregor regarded her thoughtfully; she, avoiding his gaze, examined the distant Residence wall.

“Well,” said Gregor, “if you’re truly ambivalent, the safest option, politically speaking, would be to find one person that suited, and stick with him. There’d be much less chance of anything getting out than with a string of admirers.”

“That would certainly work,” said Laisa, turning back to him. “But how would I find someone in the first place? Asking the wrong person would be catastrophic.”

“Hmm,” Gregor said, and sighed. “It goes without saying that it would have to be someone of absolute discretion - and loyalty, for that matter - but it would also have to be someone whose presence in the Residence, and in fact the Imperial Suite, was generally unremarkable, otherwise it would be bound to get out eventually. That does limit the prospects a bit.”

Laisa dredged through her spotty knowledge of Barrayaran loyalty relationships, cursing, not for the first time, her penchant for old holovids instead of scholarly sources. “What about an armsman?”

Gregor actually choked. “Ahh,” he said, in more obvious consternation than she had ever seen him. “Ah, no, Laisa, that’s - no, absolutely not. It’s-”

“A cultural thing?” supplied Laisa drily.

“A cultural thing,” Gregor agreed, pulling himself together with visible effort. “A number of very large cultural things, in fact. Someday I’ll explain them all. I hope. No, definitely not- that. But I’m sure there’s some way to…” 

He trailed off, looking away towards the wall of Residence without really seeing it. He was clearly thinking. 

Laisa watched him, the subtle movements of the muscles around his eyes forming signals she hadn’t yet learned to decode. She could watch his face for years, she thought, and never get tired of it. So much was hidden beneath such a smooth surface: a very deep pool of very still water, that could swallow even boulders without disturbing its shores.

A Barrayaran man, a Barrayaran _Vor_ , would indeed have to have considerable hidden depths to so matter-of-factly contemplate how to facilitate his prospective bride’s affairs. But Gregor would clearly give her anything she wanted, if he could - and the Emperor of Barrayar could do quite a lot. It wasn’t a matter of transactional value that made this endearing to her, of course, but its emotional weight; her previous lovers, and even her more serious bonding prospects, had never looked at her with that sort of devotion. It would be an incredible shame if she had to refuse him, but it would do neither of them any good to become stuck in a match that made both of them miserable.

Finally, Gregor looked back at her. “Laisa,” he said slowly. “I’ve had an idea. Have you met my cousin Ivan?”

* * *

Laisa, it transpired, _had_ met his cousin Ivan, at that first Residence dinner where she had also met Gregor himself. Gregor was somewhat stunned to realize that it had only been four weeks. She had been introduced to too many Vor at once to recall Ivan specifically at first, but upon seeing his picture said, “Oh, the deliberately charming one,” which Gregor hoped was a good sign.

As this was not a situation where he could ask Lady Alys to play Baba - his mind stuttered over the very idea - he was resigned to the idea that he would have to do so himself. Luckily, while Ivan was only rarely at the Residence when not attending some larger event, the idea of a private social call was not outlandish. Greger sent a personal vidmessage as an invitation for after-dinner drinks that Friday. He suspected, given the agenda, that Ivan would appreciate the ability to take refuge in alcohol without regard for early-morning duty the next day.

Ivan appeared at the Residence right on schedule, in good time and wearing a relatively fashionable suit in lieu of his dress greens. Gregor was thankful for the choice of outfit; he wasn’t sure he could have managed to put this particular proposition to anyone wearing a uniform that proclaimed the man inside to be in Gregor’s own Imperial Service. His borrowed Betan sensibilities, perhaps, but that felt a bit… messy.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of a personal invitation?” asked Ivan cheerfully, when they had settled in. He had crossed his legs, and was resting his wine glass jauntily on his knee. His other arm stretched over the back of the settee. His whole appearance was relaxed and informal; his mother would not have approved.

Gregor regarded his cousin analytically. He had generally taken Ivan’s apparent attractiveness to and facility with women as read - though now Gregor thought about it, he had only ever heard one side of those stories - but he had never before had occasion to contemplate it personally. He did so now: thick, dark hair, styled in a way that managed to be both fashionably voluminous and within military regulations; a well-fitted suit that highlighted the results of an ambitious training regimen; a friendly and expressive face, with its sensuous mouth, and charming and attentive eyes. Gregor supposed he could understand the attraction.

“You met Laisa,” he said, filling the pause before it could grow awkward.

Ivan raised his glass. “I did! She’s lovely. Miles told me things were, er, progressing - may I offer you my congratulations?” He paused. “No, seriously, _may_ I offer you my congratulations? I’m really, _really_ looking forward to your wedding.”

“Not yet. I’m working on it.” Gregor eyed the precarious tilt of Ivan’s glass as his cousin winced and took a conciliatory gulp. “Put the wine down a moment, Ivan.”

Ivan swallowed hastily, setting his glass on the side table. “Sorry, I didn’t mean -”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Gregor interrupted him. “I just don’t want you spilling it all over yourself when I ask you the next question.”

Ivan raised his eyebrows in baffled invitation.

“Would you be interested in sleeping with her?”

“Hnng!” said Ivan immediately, his face frozen in something approaching a rictus of horror. His eyes darted towards the doorways, looking for - what? A vidcorder crew? An armsman with an executioner’s axe?

Gregor sighed. At least there was no wine on the carpet.

“It’s not a joke, Ivan,” he said. “Or some test of loyalty, or propriety, or something. Laisa told me that she _would_ marry me, except that she doesn’t think she can be happily monogamous. I don’t have any problem with that personally, but for obvious reasons the logistics are… difficult. I’ve been trying to figure out a solution.”

Ivan boggled at him. “Look, it’s- I’m not a complete stranger to compliant husbands in this regard, but - you don’t have a problem with your wife, _the Empress,_ sleeping around? Really?”

“I want her to be my wife,” Gregor said seriously. “If she’s also someone else’s lover, I don’t really care, if it makes her happy. As for the cultural issues,” he shrugged, “my formative ideas on sex and relationships came mostly from Cordelia. She didn’t really have anything complimentary to say about Barrayaran notions of the importance of female chastity.”

“Uh-huh,” said Ivan, who was clearly torn between fascinated and appalled by the idea of Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan, Imperial Sex Educator. He had no personal experience to draw on; Alys had been a bit too traditional to allow the Countess the same access to her own son. Gregor privately thought that was a pity; some of Ivan’s more bone-headed missteps with his earlier girlfriends might thereby have been avoided. 

“The politics, however, are a problem,” he concluded.

“Yeah,” said Ivan, his eyebrows up near his hairline. “A Komarran Empress committing adultery? You don’t say.” He retrieved his wineglass, sneaking a glance at Gregor to see if he objected. With a motion that would have made his mother reach incredulously for her etiquette handbook, or perhaps a ruler, he downed half of it in one gulp and replaced it on the table.

“So,” he said, thus fortified, “you, uh, need someone who can be discreet, obviously, and who you can trust _will_ be discreet. And someone who can come and go from the Residence unremarked, which narrows the field quite a bit.”

“Exactly.”

“And someone handsome and charming, and good in bed, of course, only the best for the Empress -”

“ _Ivan_.” Gregor was amused despite himself. Ivan really rode the line between plausibly oblivious and overtly performative, the better to disclaim any specific reading of his comments that might cause offense, or draw unwanted attention to his competence. It did fit with his public persona, but sometimes it was so over-the-top that Gregor wondered more people didn’t notice the trick.

“Right, well.” Ivan cleared his throat, as though he were about to say something serious. “Look, Gregor, if it’s just about sex, then unless she has some really specific preferences, I’m sure that’ll work fine. I’m, well, pretty easy, frankly, and she’s -” he made an unconscious gesture in the vicinity of his chest, then noticed what he was doing and looked nervously toward the doorway again, “- very attractive. And she won’t want me to marry her, obviously, which is always a plus. So that’s not a problem.”

He paused. Gregor waited. When the pause dragged on, Gregor went so far as to raise a subtly Imperial eyebrow at his cousin, which had the desired effect.

“It’s just - she has a _doctorate_ , Gregor.”

“In business theory, yes. And?”

“So, I mean, I can perform in bed and everything, but what if she wants to _talk_ to me?”

Gregor was momentarily taken aback. The concern about dangerous Imperial loyalty tests had been, sadly, expected; a concern about _inadequacy_ was a surprise.

“This from the man who was just boasting about his charm?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“That’s just flirting,” said Ivan dismissively. “It’s meaningless small talk, anyone can do that.”

Gregor held his tongue. As an intensely shy and awkward teenager, he himself had had hours of lessons in meaningless small talk, from no less a personage than Ivan’s own mother. But then, so had Ivan, though he apparently didn’t see it.

“You’re an officer in the Barrayaran military,” he said instead. “An aide to the Head of Fleet Logistics, no less. In fact, I seem to remember personally giving you an Imperial Bronze Star, and for good reason. You’re a person of substance, not some dissipated town clown.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about women,” said Ivan drily, “it’s that the more impressive they are themselves, the less impressed they are with a man’s shiny medals. And the ones my age with advanced degrees tend to be really impressive, and really, _really_ unimpressed.”

“Perhaps they just prefer honest interest to flirtatious charm,” Gregor suggested, just as dry.

“Or perhaps they want an intellectual connection I’m too stupid to provide,” Ivan returned. “Whatever the reason, they’re terrifying.”

Gregor cocked his head in bemusement at this continued self-deprecation. “You’re not stupid, Ivan. Uninterested in academic scholarship, perhaps, but not stupid. Why would you say that?”

Ivan gave him a look. “Have you forgotten my childhood nickname? Half the people I’m related to,and Elena, _and_ Simon Illyan, called me ‘Ivan, you idiot,’ for years. That’s too impressive a group of people to be collectively wrong.”

Gregor hesitated. “I remember certain lectures after we’d all done something stupid together, but surely it wasn’t that pervasive.”

Ivan looked at him. “When I was eight, I reminded Uncle Aral that my middle name was actually Xav. I genuinely thought he had forgotten.”

Gregor winced. 

“Anyway,” Ivan continued, now reaching a level of dryness Gregor usually associated primarily with Simon Illyan, “you’ll understand if I’m worried about a situation where I could destabilize the Imperial marriage, a relationship that I am personally interested in keeping as solid and, er, productive as possible, by being ‘uninterested in academic scholarship.’”

Gregor was silent for a moment.

“I think you sell you yourself short,” he said finally, ignoring the hint of stubbornness that entered Ivan’s expression in response. “And I don’t think it’s likely to be a problem in any case. But before you jump to unfounded conclusions of inadequacy, why don’t you actually meet her and see?”

“Oh, alright,” Ivan said, giving in easily, as always. The hint of stubbornness was replaced by a more familiar wry grin. “I suppose I can resign myself to entertaining a beautiful woman at a social event. She certainly doesn’t _look_ terrifying.”

Gregor was gratified to note that this time, there were no surreptitious glances towards the door.

“No,” he agreed. “She’s really very pleasant company, and I truly don’t think you need to worry. I haven’t decided yet what the most appropriate venue will be, but I’ll make sure you get an invitation soon.”

He saw Ivan to the door, which Armsman Kazov opened soundlessly for them.

“Thank you, Ivan,” he said sincerely. “This means a great deal to me.”

“You’re welcome,” said Ivan, giving him an unreadable look. “Though that seems like it ought to be my line, under the circumstances.” He was mindful of his phrasing near the open door. The armsmen wouldn’t gossip, but once outside the Imperial Suite, you never who else might be listening. 

“Nevertheless,” said Gregor firmly, grasping Ivan’s hand in farewell. The smile Ivan gave him in response was quirky, but genuine. His eyes sparkled, and his lashes fluttered in what was almost a wink. Then, with just a hint of a bow, to satisfy whatever ghost this conversation had made of propriety, he retrieved his hand and was gone.

Ivan really had nothing to worry about, Gregor thought to himself, staring absent-mindedly after his cousin as the door closed between them. If his usual charm somehow failed to endear him to Laisa, surely all he would have to do to entrance her was put on a reprise of that smile.

* * *

The appropriate venue presented itself soon afterwards: a dinner at the Residence with the Tau Ceti Ambassador, scheduled for the next week. This would not only be a plausible event to which to invite Dr. Laisa Toscane, Komarran trade lobbyist, on her own merits, but it would also include dancing, which would show Ivan off to good advantage and allow him and Laisa to converse without inviting comment. 

Luckily, the news of Laisa’s multiple personal invitations to the Residence had not yet percolated into the Vorbarr Sultana gossip rota. None of them would have to worry about tongues wagging concerning the combination of the Emperor’s possible love interest and a marginally notorious womanizer. Panegyrics on the free press from Cordelia notwithstanding, Gregor blessed the complete lack of Barrayaran paparazzi. He had no idea how any of the other Nexus heads of state dealt with it. If he’d been facing that sort of inexorable prying from childhood, he might seriously have stuck with the Aslunder light fixtures.

At the dinner itself, they were all seated separately. Gregor had managed to place Laisa within speaking distance of the Ambassador, but Lady Alys, citing the dangers of provoking gossip, had refused to put her any closer to Gregor himself. Having even more reason than his Hostess to want to avoid such a thing, Gregor had readily agreed. Ivan, being present in his capacity as “extraneous high Vor relation” rather than anything more official, was seated rather down the table, opposite the Ambassador’s niece.

Gregor also kept his distance at the reception afterwards, for much the same reason. He watched them both, in snatches, until Laisa turned from her conversation with Lord Vorsmythe to take Ivan’s hand. He was too far away to make out their expressions, but he was encouraged by the sight of the two of them bending towards each other, and the brief, bright sound of Laisa’s cheerful laugh. Turning back to the Ambassador, he left them to each other’s company, with the odd but gratifying realization that he was pleased to do so. He could trust Ivan, and Laisa looked likely to enjoy herself.

Across the room, Laisa was indeed enjoying herself - more than she’d initially thought likely. Ivan was as charming as she remembered, but this time it seemed less a calculated mask, and more a smattering of artistically-applied gold leaf: highlighting, rather than concealing. The flirting was purely recreational on his part, apparently, rather than strategic, and this realization allowed her to relax into their exchange. This sort of socialization didn’t quite come naturally to her, despite years of practice, so she did appreciate a conversation partner who was happy to do most of the heavy lifting.

They’d been keeping to the sidelines, so far, preferring conversation to the dance floor. Laisa had declined Ivan’s invitation to a mirror dance, not trusting herself to be able to keep up in front of everyone, and the opening bars of the next song had a fast beat that, despite her homework on the subject, she was entirely unfamiliar with. Ivan identified it for her as a mazurka, and seemed relieved she wasn’t interested in trying it.

“It’s a lot of fun, but it’s a bit difficult for a beginner,” he said, with a disarming smile. “I’d offer to teach you, but, well, you know.”

“What?” said Laisa, confused. “I mean, I’m not that bad.”

“Oh, no, it’s not that!” said Ivan quickly. “Right, I suppose you wouldn’t have that expression on Komarr. Um… I mean, I could literally teach you - though not here - but, to ‘teach someone to dance the mazurka’ is, well, a euphemism. For being the first to… get to know them. As it were.”

Laisa’s responding half-laugh was equal parts amused and incredulous. “Are you joking? That’s the eighth virginity metaphor I’ve heard in this city, and I’ve only been here three months! What a bizarre thing to be so concerned about, in the age of replicators!”

“I agree!” said Ivan promptly. “An entirely overhyped concept, I’ve always thought. Doesn’t at all live up to its reputation.” He tilted his head to look at her sideways. “You do realize, of course, that everyone on the planet will be culturally obligated to pretend that you, er, have never danced the mazurka in your life, at a certain point. Regardless of any evidence they might have to the contrary.”

Laisa shook her head incredulously. “This is such a fascinating planet,” she said, managing to keep her tone within striking distance of genuine. It really was - but then there were things like this.

Ivan laughed good-naturedly. “You’ll fit right in, with that poker face. Tante Cordelia would have said, ‘ _Barrayarans!_ ’” He gave what Laisa assumed was a credibly exasperated impression, though she had some difficulty imagining Aral Vorkosigan’s wife being quite so dismissive of her adopted planet.

“It’s not that bad, really,” he went on. “Look on the bright side; as long as whatever you do in public is close enough to proper, nobody cares what you do anywhere else. Even if it’s scandalous. Especially if it’s scandalous, in fact, because as long as you’re doing it, they can keep whispering about it. So when I say ‘culturally obligated to pretend,’ I just mean, you know, in public conversation. It’s not like Beta Colony, with their thought police.”

This was a view of Beta Colony that Laisa had not previously encountered. She wondered whether it was a general Barrayaran view, or just a peculiarity of Ivan’s.

“So, how do the Vor learn to dance when they’re not the Emperor?” she asked, moving the conversation safely away from galactic cultural politics. “Did you take lessons as a child, like Gregor did?”

“Oh, I took lessons,” said Ivan, mock-grimly. “But they weren’t like Gregor’s at all. Much more grueling.”

“Oh?”

“Oh yes - m’mother taught me.” He paused. “Come to think of it, I suppose she taught him too, or arranged it, anyway - but it’s different when it’s your own mother. Whoever she is, but especially when she’s, well, Mamere.”

“I can imagine,” said Laisa. “She’s terrifying enough as it is; the idea of being her daughter is… something else.”

Ivan made a commiserating face. “Yes, but you’ve got her as a duenna anyway, haven’t you? My condolences. Well, this one’s not a mazurka -” the music was just changing “- and I promise there are no lurking cultural metaphors in the waltz. Shall we?”

She took his offered hand, and they ventured onto the floor.

The dance itself was lovely. Ivan proved to be an excellent dancer, who neither pulled away from his partner in anxiety, nor pressed uncomfortably close. He certainly didn’t stand on her feet. In fact, he seemed even more at home in the movement of the dance than he had in the social interplay of their conversation. The display of physical competence made her deliciously curious about his other possible areas of, ah, physical expertise. But that would come later, if at all - tonight was about a different sort of curiosity. 

“Gregor said you were cousins - did you know him as a child, then?” she asked, in between one turn and another.

“Third cousins, once removed,” said Ivan. “But yeah, a bit. We played together when we were younger, mostly out at Vorkosigan Surleau - the Count’s country house. There’s a lake - hence the name - and horses, and it’s far enough away from everything that ImpSec could let their hair down a bit. But after he went off to prep school at twelve, it was only at breaks - and Miles and I were only seven then, so.” He shrugged, managing to do so without disturbing their rhythm in the slightest. Laisa admired his poise - and the feel of his shoulders moving beneath her hands.

“It’s hard to picture Gregor at that age,” she said, reflectively. “He seems so… self-contained. Not very child-like.”

“He was like that then, too,” said Ivan. The dance was ending; they twirled to a stop and exchanged the final bow and curtsy with only moderate flourish. Some of Ivan’s performative exuberance had worn off, Laisa noticed, whether from the exertion of the dance or simply more time in her company. She found the flashes of deeper waters underneath quite intriguing. 

“Mind you,” Ivan continued, as they made their way off the floor, “he sort of had to be. Not just because of the politics, but because he was stuck with all of us kids. Five years is a big gap when you’re ten or so; for a long time, he sort of had to entertain himself.” He paused. “Not that some of Miles’ antics later on didn’t more than make up for it. But, uh, I probably shouldn’t go into too much detail in the middle of a ballroom.”

Laisa’s brow furrowed. “He wasn’t thinking about the politics at ten, surely.”

They had come to rest in an alcove near one of the tall windows. The curtain screened them from the room at large, slightly; not enough to be scandalous, but enough for a reasonable facsimile of privacy. With an easy motion clearly born of long-standing familiarity with the setting, Ivan took up a position against the wall that angled himself out to the room at large, displaying a deliberately carefree demeanor with every line of his body language. The expression on his face was the same one he had worn to extol the virtues of mountain lightflyer races at her earlier, but the light of that frivolous exuberance no longer reached his eyes.

“Well, when you think about it,” he said quietly, “I imagine he started at five.”

Laisa’s head came up - of course. She’d learned about Vordarian’s Pretendership in school, along with the broad outlines of the rest of recent Barrayaran history, but she was still coming to grips with the idea that to the Barrayarans themselves, the Pretendership - and even Yuri’s War, to the older ones - would feel as much like “history” as the Revolt did to her. Gregor, she knew, had lost his mother. Had Ivan lost family as well? She knew Lady Alys was a widow. Perhaps he and Gregor had more in common than an initial read of their personalities might suggest.

Before she could say anything, however, the orchestra struck up again, a different tune, and Ivan’s face changed with the music.

“A polka!” he said. “Thank god. Last time, they dragged on with the slower waltzes for an hour.” He straightened up from his carefully-positioned slouch and clicked his heels at her. “Might I interest you in yet another dance, mademoiselle?” The cheerful mask was back. Laisa took the cue as it was offered, along with his hand.

As they danced, to a faster, livelier beat this time, the touch of brittleness in his eyes faded, until Laisa almost second-guessed her initial read. She liked him, she decided, though she had difficulty telling whether it was because of his manner, or in spite of it. He had layers, she thought, like all of Barrayaran society, and she had only just glimpsed the top few. 

Perhaps later she would find something to dislike, some stripe of rot in among the carved wood, and the thick brocade, and the open air. But not tonight, on the shining floor of a brightly-lit ballroom, with such charming company in her arms, and the man she loved watching approvingly from his own circle. Tonight was everything she’d ever dreamed of, falling suddenly, finally, into place.

Across the room, Gregor was indeed watching the two of them again, though of course he hadn’t been all evening. Propriety, and diplomacy, had kept him busy for much of the time: speaking with the Ambassador, dancing with her wife, circulating through the various other guests. But the snatches he’d glimpsed throughout the evening had been as satisfying as that first image at the start - very promising. He hoped Laisa thought so, too.

As midnight approached, he managed to slip away to a sitting room around the corner from the main exit route, mainly just to get a moment to himself. He wasn’t intending to reconnect with Laisa tonight, necessarily; he expected she’d need some time to think, however enjoyable Ivan’s company may hopefully have been. There were details they hadn’t yet discussed, after all: what exactly she would want to do with her paramour, whoever he ultimately was; what level of discussion she would want to have with her husband about it; how the scheduling would work. Knowing Laisa’s penchant for analysis, he thought it likely that she would want to digest tonight’s data before coming to any particular conclusion. But he did let Gerard know to direct her accordingly if she seemed to be looking for him.

Apparently this had been prescient; when Armsman Kazov opened the door a few minutes later, Laisa was standing on the other side. Smiling at him, she came in and closed the door - halfway, in deference to some level of propriety.

“Good evening,” he said, smiling back at her. “Or at least, I hope it was.”

“I had a lovely time,” said Laisa, meaningfully.

“You mean?” 

“I think it’ll work out,” said Laisa. “And if it doesn’t, I think we’ve both demonstrated that we can try something else later. I’m ready to say yes.”

Gregor stopped breathing. He hadn’t expected it, he realized. Ever since he asked her, ever since he had sat at the tea table across from her and recognized the woman he wanted to have and to hold, above all others, he had been waiting for her to say no. To leave him. The moment in the garden, while devastating, had also been predictable, blending into the rest of his emotional existence in depressingly unremarkable fashion.

But this was something else. He was, abruptly, happier than he had ever been - so much so that it almost hurt. It went straight to his chest and made him breathless, as though every happy thought he hadn’t had in his life was now falling down on top of him, an avalanche of individually weightless snowflakes adding up to something almost too heavy to bear.

“ _Laisa,_ ” he whispered. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He felt that if he reached for more words, for any at all, that every last one of them in four languages would come falling out of his mouth in a jumble, insensible and alarming. He wanted to kiss her. He couldn’t kiss her - not in a side room at a formal Residence event, a Komarran oligarch’s daughter, without even a notice of intended betrothal. He stood frozen, unable to move, and absolutely unable to move away.

From the doorway, a woman cleared her throat.

They broke apart, Gregor’s mask of Imperial composure reforming around him almost automatically - but it was only Lady Alys. Of course it was Lady Alys; they’d snuck off by themselves while under her ostensible supervision. But whatever she saw in Gregor’s face forestalled her impending lecture.

“Lady Alys,” said Gregor, with what scraps of decorum he could muster. “Dr. Toscane has agreed to marry me. As Our Hostess, could you -” He paused. Pessimistic as he’d been on the outcome, he hadn’t actually thought beyond this moment. “Could you… arrange the next steps?”

Lady Alys closed her eyes very briefly in what was clearly a well-disguised prayer, though for what, precisely, Gregor couldn’t have said. Patience, possibly. 

“Of course, Sire,” she said, her voice predictably professional. “I’ll send an itinerary around to Ross tomorrow.” 

They left separately, when they dispersed; until the betrothal, it would still be courting scandal to be seen creeping out of a side room together. With a last, breathless kiss to her hand, Gregor saw Laisa bundled off with Lady Alys down the main corridor, presumably for the first of many briefing sessions. 

As he turned back to the ballroom, he saw Ivan lurking by the doors, glass in hand; he’d clearly seen the last moments of their interplay. Gregor couldn’t help but smile at him; just now, he felt he’d smile at a Cetagandan dreadnought. Across the hallway, Ivan smiled back, raising his glass in salute.

* * *

Things went very quickly after that.

Laisa had, of course, understood that the wedding of a sitting head of state would be a circus, and had already resigned herself to dealing with pomp and protocol and insultingly sexist anachronisms for the duration. Unfortunately, within a few days of their pre-betrothal announcement (a concept she still found ridiculous on its face), she realized that she had nevertheless vastly underestimated the sheer _scale_ of the endeavor.

Luckily, Lady Alys, who Laisa had assumed would become something of a stereotypically disapproving mother-in-law figure, proved instead to be an absolutely invaluable organizer - and ally, once she realized Laisa was willing to learn.

“I’m glad to see that you appreciate the value of social niceties, my dear,” she had said, after the first round of what promised to be an extended campaign against the seating chart. “After Cordelia, I must confess I had somewhat despaired of finding a proper protege among… anyone not raised in the capital,” she finished diplomatically.

“Well, it’s not my first time tangling with all this,” said Laisa, “though of course the context is different. In fact, you remind me of my aunt. Aunt Ruth is our primary negotiator for the Tau Ceti contracts, and she’s forever going on about the importance of what she calls ‘the strategy of the personal.’ It’s just another set of lobbying considerations, really.”

“Just so,” said Lady Alys, raising an impeccably-shaped eyebrow and retrieving the next set of flimsies. 

After that, the mountain of negotiations and logistics awaiting her seemed marginally more manageable.

Another unexpected bright spot in the proceedings was Ivan. Captain Vorpatril had apparently been formally assigned to his mother for the duration of the wedding planning, which state of affairs he clearly found excruciating and Laisa found actively amusing, though she kept that to herself. His presence in their planning meetings lent an air of levity to the proceedings that she appreciated, despite the corresponding reduction in efficiency, and the repressive effects of his mother’s pointed looks.

“Are there any Admonishments to the Groom?” Laisa asked rhetorically, during the initial walkthrough of the betrothal ceremony.

“Oh, I’m sure you could think of some for later,” said Ivan brightly.

His mother glared at him. Laisa’s lips twitched.

“What?” said Ivan innocently. “I’m helping!”

Lady Alys chose not to dignify this with an answer. When she turned away to retrieve the next set of instructional flimsies, Ivan took the opportunity to wink at Laisa behind her back. Laisa returned a brief grin, which she was careful to suppress before Lady Alys could notice it, and become disappointed by her lack of decorum.

All in all, the distance between Gregor’s proposal and their wedding was both the shortest and the longest thirteen months of Laisa’s life.

* * *

On the other hand, Laisa thought, three months on the other side of their second, Komarran wedding, perhaps it was lucky that her introduction to Imperial duties had been so frenetic. Only by comparison could her adjustment to the duties of actually being Empress have seemed a welcome relaxation. 

Their honeymoon had been incredible, and surprisingly relaxing, but once she and Gregor returned to the Residence, it had taken her several weeks before she stopped feeling lost every time she turned a corner - both literally and metaphorically. All the hallways looked alike to her, with their endless ornamentation and their casually extravagant use of real wood and hand-woven textiles. And the servants! Laisa was no stranger to the idea of employees, but the Barrayaran protocol was entirely different, infused as it was with social undercurrents. On Komarr, domestic staff were just people doing jobs, subordinate only on the organizational chart. On Barrayar, the endless chorus of “my lady” threatened to give her vertigo. 

Between the cultural adjustments, and the planning stages of what would become her more substantive responsibilities, she was busy enough that everything outside the Residence orbit tended to fall quite out of her mind, unless someone prompted her. Gregor’s gentle inquiry about Ivan, and their arrangement, had therefore caught her genuinely off guard.

“Not that I’m trying to push you into anything,” he had said, with a slight smile, “but you seem to be getting your feet under you by now, and I wouldn’t want to let anything important to you fall by the wayside in the crush.”

In the end, they decided on a dinner invitation, to start off with - a joint one. Gregor seemed to think Ivan would find that reassuring. Laisa decided to simply trust Gregor on that point; despite an extensive briefing on the pretzel of the Vorbarra family tree and its various political implications, clearly she didn’t yet fully understand his and Ivan’s personal relationship.

On the night of the dinner, however, Laisa could tell immediately that whatever the reason, Gregor had been right. When the armsman showed him in, Ivan greeted Laisa in a lovely blue suit, and a bad case of nerves. His cheerful mask was well in evidence, though; either it was spread thinner than it had been, or Laisa was better now at seeing through it. 

He did calm down measurably when Gregor entered, however. By the time they had gone through to the back parlor, with its small table set for dinner family style, he was much closer to the friendly young man she remembered from the Ambassador’s reception.

“So, Ivan, what have you been doing with so much time on your hands, now the wedding’s over?” Laisa asked, once the servants had been and gone, and the three of them were sitting down to vat-steak and roasted vegetables.

“Enjoying being back at Ops, for one thing,” said Ivan, with feeling. “If I never have to run errands for another Vor dragon again, it’ll be too soon.”

“You don’t ever run errands for your mother?”

“Well, she tries,” Ivan conceded. “Though generally she has Christos for that. But now I can put her off without risking a dereliction of duty charge.” He shuddered. 

Gregor watched them from across the table. He was glad that Ivan was relaxing again, if slowly. He didn’t like seeing that shuttered wariness at the back of Ivan’s eyes, and he liked being the cause of it even less. He took some consolation in the fact that it wasn’t him directly, merely the shadow of the campstool - but that was quite enough, when it fell between them. He hoped this whole endeavor was successful; not only would it make Laisa happy, it would give him an opportunity to see Ivan more often, and hopefully in better spirits.

They certainly seemed to be getting along well now. Ivan was recounting a story of some Ops-based shenanigans that had apparently resulted in a moderate amount of accidental property damage - Gregor tried not to hear any details - and using his wineglass and the salt cellar to demonstrate the logistics of it all. Despite what Gregor knew to be her usual lack of patience with even minor bureaucratic malfeasance, Laisa was visibly amused. 

He smiled to himself, his eyes following the curve of Ivan’s shoulder, and the line of Laisa’s neck as she leaned towards him. Ivan, noticing, turned to look at him.

“Are you just going to watch?” he asked jokingly.

Gregor’s smile deepened, but he declined to rise to the bait. “It’s good to see you both laughing.”

“I laugh all the time,” Ivan said, eyebrows raised. “Enough that Mamere despairs of my humor, in fact.”

“You know what I mean.”

Ivan ducked his head and shrugged. “There’s being at the Residence and then there’s being _here_. For this, especially. It takes a bit to get used to, even for me.”

“It is nice to see you in person, Ivan,” said Gregor. “Especially since you never call.”

He’d meant it as a joke, but Ivan’s wounded frown showed he’d taken it differently.

“It’s not you I’m not calling,” he said, seeming genuinely hurt. “It’s just the politics I’m trying to avoid.”

“I understand, believe me,” said Gregor. “But we certainly don’t have to talk politics, and it’s a very secure line; no one would even know. You don’t have to be a stranger if you don’t want to.”

Ivan glanced down at his vat-steak. “I didn’t want to bother you, either.”

“I gave you my card, Ivan. That’s practically a license to bother me.”

Ivan shrugged. “It would be pretty awkward if you hadn’t, especially given how closely you work with Mamere. Politics aside, I didn’t want to presume.”

Gregor stared at him. “Ivan, I have to be polite and diplomatic almost twenty-seven hours a day. The fraction of my life that’s not commandeered by concerns of state is precious to me, and I don’t share it with people I don’t want to. If _you_ don’t want to share it with _me_ , that’s fine, but don’t doubt the sincerity of the offer.”

“Oh,” said Ivan, looking surprised, but faintly gratified, at Gregor’s vehemence. “I- well. Alright then. I’ll remember that.”

“See that you do,” said Gregor, lifting his glass and regarding Ivan over the top of it. “I don’t have so many friends that I can lose them to attrition without noticing, you know.”

He was rewarded with the flash of a genuine smile.

For the rest of the meal, the conversation wound on to lighter topics. They finished their vat-steak and moved on to a set of peach tartlets, so exquisitely turned out that Ivan made an involuntary noise of pleasure, and asked Gregor suspiciously if he’d managed to borrow Ma Kosti.

When the last crumb had disappeared, Laisa set her napkin decorously on the table and regarded Ivan with renewed purpose.

“So, how would you like to do this?” she asked.

“Um,” said Ivan, clearly taken a bit aback by her straightforwardness. “I didn’t really show up with an agenda.”

“Well, let’s start with this,” said Laisa. “Can I kiss you?”

Ivan blinked. “Absolutely.”

Shaking her head in fond exasperation, Laisa left her chair, and drew Ivan out of his. Once they were both standing, she closed the distance between them, and pulled his head down to hers for a very thorough kiss.

Ivan rose to the occasion well enough to respond in kind. When the scrape of Gregor’s chair advertised his move to stand, however, Ivan broke the kiss to look over at him, a bit wildly.

“Are you leaving?” he asked. His voice held an edge of mild panic.

Gregor paused. “I had planned on giving the two of you some privacy, yes. Would you rather I not?”

“Well…”

“I don’t mind either way,” said Laisa brightly.

They both looked at Ivan. Ivan looked off at the ceiling.

“It’s just, I’d feel better knowing you were, um, supervising,” he said, as though the words were being dragged out of him by ImpSec’s finest.

Gregor thought this over briefly. “Ivan, please don’t tell me you’re still worried this is some sort of political trap. What else do I have to do to convince you that I’m alright with this?”

“It’s not that, as such,” said Ivan, squirming slightly. “I know that’s not what you’re doing - but there’s a difference between knowing something, and _knowing_ it, you know? And I don’t think I’ll be able to relax and, um, enjoy myself, if my subconscious is still jumping at small noises.”

“So you want me to stay?”

“Um. I mean, I’d prefer it. Yes.”

Gregor’s eyebrows came up in surprise. “Alright,” he said, sinking back down into the chair. “If you’re both sure.”

Laisa leaned out from behind Ivan’s broad shoulder to wink at him.

“Let’s get a bit more comfortable, hmm?” she said to Ivan. “I don’t know about your jacket, but the tailoring on mine is _not_ conducive to anything entertaining.”

Suiting action to word, Laisa set about removing her bolero. Gregor couldn’t see her directly - Ivan was mostly in the way - but having helped her on with it earlier in the evening, he had some idea of the contortions required to maneuver such a short jacket, tight across the shoulders as it was - and what those contortions tended to look like on a woman of Laisa’s proportions. Judging by the angle of Ivan’s head tilt, he was appreciating the view.

“Here, let me,” Ivan said after a moment, once his reflexive manners had caught up with his eyeballs. He moved around behind her, pressing against her and running his hands across her shoulders to a degree that was clearly gratuitous, but somehow just this side of taking liberties. It was a smooth move. Gregor found himself amused - of course Ivan knew exactly how to take off a woman’s bolero for maximum flirtatious escalation.

Then, once Laisa had been successfully extricated, she turned in Ivan’s arms and eased her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, drawing his jacket off as she went, until the two of them were pressed close together and her hands were holding Ivan’s jacket, and his wrists, behind his back. As Ivan stared down at her in surprise, she deftly disentangled the last of the sleeves from his hands and retrieved the jacket, breaking their faux-embrace to shake it out and lay it over the back of the nearest chair.

“There,” she said smugly. “Much better.” 

Gregor blinked. That was _also_ a smooth move. How interesting.

Ivan, for his part, looked croggled in the best possible way.

“Well,” he said emphatically, a grin tugging at his lips. “If you keep doing things like that, they’ll never believe you haven’t danced the mazurka!”

Laisa’s laugh was louder than Gregor thought the joke really deserved.

“Oh, I can play the ingenue,” she said, amused, and batted her eyelashes at Ivan coquettishly. “My goodness, Lord Vorpatril!” she went on, in a high-pitched affectation so reminiscent of Lady Vormurtos that Gregor choked on a laugh. “I fear the stays on this gown are so tight, they may do me injury if they are not loosened immediately! Alas, my maid has wandered off somewhere. Might I prevail upon you to assist me?”

Ivan’s grin widened. “Of course, milady!” he returned, an actor in the same holovid. “It would be my honor to come to the aid of such a beautiful woman!”

Unfortunately, his gallant act was spoiled by the apparently obtuse construction of the dress. The fasteners had all been cleverly disguised in the pattern of the brocade, and the button he had confidently set out to undo turned out instead to be a decorative knot. 

“Huh,” he said, making a face at it. “This may be more of a challenge than I’d bargained for.”

“There’s a fastener just under the armpit on the side,” Laisa hinted.

“Is there?” Ivan asked, inspecting the seam in question with a frown. “Are you sure?”

“Try the other side, Ivan,” Gregor suggested, after a moment of fruitless fumbling.

Ivan did so, but to no further avail. 

“Oh dear,” Laisa said, her eyes twinkling at Gregor over Ivan’s head. “I’m terribly sorry, I should have picked a different dress.”

“No, no, this one’s gorgeous,” said Ivan. “It’s just a bit complicated, that’s all. ” He snuck a sideways glance at Gregor.

“Here,” said Gregor, taking the hint and getting up to help. “It’s probably underneath the placket; they make them so tiny, it sometimes looks like a seam. Hold on.”

The angle was wrong for two people to fit side by side and still have access to the alleged fastener, so Gregor came up behind Ivan instead, leaning over his shoulder to get a look.

“It’s this one here,” said Gregor, bringing his arm up alongside Ivan’s to point.

“Where?”

“Here -” Gregor leaned over farther, taking hold of Ivan’s wrist to guide his hand, and incidentally pressing their bodies together in the process.

“Oh, yeah, there it is,” said Ivan, a trifle breathily. “I see it now.” 

And just like that, the button was undone. Gregor took a step back, intending to return to his seat.

“Wait,” said Ivan suddenly. 

Gregor turned back around, eyebrows raised. “What, Ivan? Surely you don’t need any more direction.”

Ivan licked his lips nervously. “No,” he said. His eyes flicked away, and then back to Gregor’s. “But I might want it.”

Gregor cocked his head. Ivan’s eyes were wide, and he looked a bit flushed. This wasn’t just residual nerves, he realized - or at least, not the political kind. This was something else entirely. He recalled Ivan’s line at dinner, and, now he thought of it, the way his smiles at Gregor had been not so different from the ones he’d aimed at Laisa. Had those been hints? 

He glanced over at Laisa. Her eyes were as wide as Ivan’s, but only in surprise and, he thought, arousal - no hesitation or alarm. She met his eyes and nodded, subtly but enthusiastically.

 _Well_ , he thought, _let’s see what happens._ He turned back to Ivan. 

“And if I have to touch you to provide it?” he asked softly, meeting Ivan’s gaze with his own.

“That’s fine.” Ivan’s voice came out a bit breathy.

“Just fine?” He stepped closer and brought a hand up to Ivan’s shoulder, smoothing over it and down his arm, an echo of Laisa’s earlier gesture. 

Ivan sucked in a breath, but didn’t move away.

Gregor hummed thoughtfully. Experimentally, he tightened his grip on Ivan’s wrist; Ivan gasped and jolted against him. Result confirmed, he released his hold, to Ivan’s audible disappointment.

“I - Gregor - can’t you just -”

“No,” said Gregor softly, coaxingly. “I can’t _just_ , Ivan. I need to know what you want. And I can’t read minds, so you’re going to have to tell me.”

They were standing very close, now. Ivan’s arm was still around Laisa, but some time in the last few minutes he and Gregor had drifted close enough that their chests were almost touching. They weren’t quite of a height, but it was close; at this distance, one of them would only need to lean forward just slightly before their lips would be touching as well.

Ivan seemed to notice this as Gregor did. His eyes flicked down to Gregor’s mouth, and back up to his eyes. He swallowed, seemingly working up the courage to ask. His speechlessness was oddly endearing, but at the same time Gregor missed his voice.

After a moment, Gregor took pity on him. “Would you like me to kiss you?” he asked gently.

Ivan let out a breath, and nodded. “I… yes. Please.”

Gregor hummed approvingly, and brought a hand up to cup the back of Ivan’s neck and draw him close. As their lips touched, Ivan made a low noise into his mouth and pressed closer, turning Gregor’s planned gentle exploration into something hotter and more intense. Gregor found he didn’t remotely mind.

When they broke apart, they were both breathing a bit heavily. Gregor kept his hand on the back of Ivan’s neck, the better to get a good look at his reaction.

“Alright?” he asked.

Whatever cat had gotten Ivan’s tongue before appeared to have been chased off, and he looked much more collected.

“Yeah,” he said, a bit huskily. “Yeah, definitely alright.” He cleared his throat. “I, uh, was sort of worried you wouldn’t go for it.”

Gregor raised his eyebrows. “So that was your idea of playing coy?”

Ivan shrugged, a smile playing around his lips. “That and nerves. But it worked.”

Beside them, Laisa cleared her throat pointedly, causing them both to jump. Gregor realized, guiltily, that he’d actually managed to forget she was there - though he supposed kissing someone else was a reasonable excuse. Insofar as any of this was reasonable. Cordelia’s lectures on the “beautiful diversity of human sexuality” hadn’t really gotten this specific.

“Just for the record, I have absolutely no problems with this evening turning into a threesome,” Laisa said brightly, her eyes sparkling as she took in Ivan’s flushed face and both of their kiss-swollen lips. “But perhaps we should move this to the bed?”

“Not in that dress,” said Gregor drily, not letting go of Ivan. “You’ll never get it off lying down, with only one fastener undone.”

She waggled her eyebrows at him. “Then you’ll just have to help me with it.”

For that, Gregor could take his hands off of Ivan. Between both of their efforts, the rest of the fasteners came undone quickly - suspiciously quickly, in fact. Gregor shot Ivan a look. When Ivan returned it with an overtly innocent face and an actual batting of eyelashes, Gregor took it as confirmation. Even such a complicated dress as Laisa’s hadn’t been built from a unique pattern; between his personal experience and his mother’s affinity for fashion, Ivan had known perfectly well how to undo the fasteners all along. 

In short order, the dress was relegated to the back of the armchair by the fireplace. Underneath, Laisa’s slip was a body-hugging sheath of ivory synth-silk. Both men took a moment to appreciate the view.

“So, um,” said Ivan, looking around the parlor. “This bed you mentioned…”

Laisa smirked at them, and went to open a door in the far wall.“Through here,” she said. “We didn’t just pick this parlor because of the decor.”

This was true; Gregor had suggested it precisely because it was adjacent to their bedroom. In the original choreography, of course, it would merely have been easier for him to extricate himself if they weren’t all exiting into the hallway together. However, the added convenience would do just as well in this revised version.

Once through the door, Laisa wasted no time in crowding Ivan onto the bed. He went willingly, making up for his ersatz struggles with the fasteners by managing to kiss her and undo his shirt buttons simultaneously along the way.

After a moment of hesitation, which he covered by dealing with his own jacket, Gregor followed them - on the side of the bed that put Ivan in the middle. Initially, Ivan was too preoccupied with Laisa to notice this, but when he felt the bed dip, he broke their kiss and looked over. Between his rumpled shirt and the mess Laisa had already made of his hair, he looked delightfully debauched already. Gregor was surprised to find that he wanted to contribute to the image himself.

Moving closer, until his chest was pressed up against Ivan’s back, he ran his own hands through Ivan’s hair. Ivan closed his eyes and relaxed into the contact.

“Is this alright?” Gregor asked him. “Would you like me to stop?”

“It feels good.”

Gregor repeated the gesture, tugging slightly this time. “Would you like me to stop?” he repeated.

Ivan let out a shaky breath. “No. It feels good, don’t- don’t stop.”

Gregor hummed in acknowledgement, dropping a kiss just below Ivan’s ear and massaging Ivan’s scalp with his fingertips. Ivan moaned.

On Ivan’s other side, Laisa was watching them, her eyes bright. 

“So, we’ve established that Ivan has no agenda for this portion of the evening,” said Gregor, a bit dry. In retrospect, he wasn’t really surprised that, outside of a lightflyer, Ivan preferred to let someone else drive. “What about you, Laisa?”

“Oh, I definitely have an agenda,” said Laisa, from behind Ivan’s chest. “But it was mostly just about Ivan fucking me.”

Ivan’s low groan communicated his agreement with this plan, but Gregor did notice a slight hesitation.

“Or,” he said, straight into Ivan’s ear, “if that’s too much for you, Ivan, _I_ can fuck her - with you.”

Ivan’s eyes flew open, and he sucked in a breath. “ _Oh._ ”

“Yes?”

“ _Yes._ ”

At Laisa’s enthusiastic endorsement, they rearranged themselves. Gregor took the opportunity to remove the rest of his clothes, and retrieve one of the tubes of lubricant from the selection in the side table - a private wedding present from Cordelia that he’d initially found mortifying, but had quickly come to appreciate. He and Laisa hadn’t used this particular one yet, but it looked like it would do the job.

When he returned to the bed, the other two had also finished undressing. Laisa had ended up on her back, with Ivan arranged above her. She had one hand combing through Ivan’s hair, and was whispering something into his ear that Gregor couldn’t hear. When she noticed Gregor returning, she smiled and winked at him over Ivan’s shoulder.

Ivan turned out to be surprisingly comfortable with the necessary preparations, for someone Gregor had assumed had no sexual experience with men. Perhaps he’d been wrong about that - or perhaps the young women of Vorbarr Sultana were more adventurous than he had previously supposed. One well-lubricated finger produced no more than a groan of sensation, and it wasn’t until it was joined by a second that Ivan gave a small gasp.

“Alright?” Gregor asked, slowing down.

Ivan shivered. “ _Yes_ , dammit.”

In response to that, Gregor slowed even further, prompting a noise of frustration from Ivan. Gregor ran quelling hand down his flank.

“You seem to be neglecting Laisa, Ivan,” he said after a moment, speeding up again. His studied nonchalance contrasted with Ivan’s increasingly erratic breathing. “Didn’t I hear something about Barrayaran honor and a lady’s satisfaction?”

Ivan’s eyes flew open. “You heard that story?”

Gregor smirked. “I have my sources.”

“Yeah, but -”

“Ivan. Focus.”

Ivan cleared his throat. “Ok, so, how..?”

Forestalling any further digressions, Gregor pulled Ivan down towards the footboard by his hips. Or, tried to; with some chagrin, he realized that although he had an inch of height over his younger cousin, Ivan outweighed him by probably a dozen pounds of muscle. Luckily, the message had been received, and between the two of them Ivan was maneuvered into position.

Judging by Laisa’s subsequent reactions, Ivan’s skill in this area had, astonishingly, not been exaggerated. In the time it took two of Gregor’s fingers to become three, she had already come twice. Ivan moved aside slightly, resting his head on Laisa’s thigh and catching his breath.

“Surely you’re not done yet,” said Gregor, looking down at him. “Three times, wasn’t it?”

Ivan groaned, causing Laisa to writhe slightly above him - and then settle back with a groan of her own, as he evidently got back to work. 

Gregor was fairly certain that Ivan was ready at this point, but he wasn’t going to interrupt Laisa’s orgasm, and he saw no reason to stop before then. Ivan certainly seemed to be enjoying himself. He sat back on his heels, leisurely twisting his fingers in and out of Ivan, and watching Laisa’s face grow more and more deliciously contorted. Altogether, it was an excellent view.

Finally, Laisa gave one last cry and sank back into the pillows, gasping and exhausted. Ivan collapsed half on top of her, his arm across her stomach. Gregor removed his fingers, and moved up the bed to catch Ivan’s mouth in a deep kiss, tasting Laisa on his lips. Ivan made a noise around his mouth, trying to kiss back and catch his breath at the same time.

After a moment, Ivan broke the kiss for good.

“Alright,” he said, a bit breathlessly. “My turn.”

Gregor quirked a smile at him, and helped him turn over.

It should have been awkward, but between the two of them they sank into an entirely pleasurable rhythm. Ivan braced himself up on his elbows and let Gregor do most of the work. Gregor was happy to oblige; the feeling of his movements flowing through Ivan into Laisa was satisfying on a more than physical level.

Eventually, just as Gregor bent in to nuzzle at his neck, Ivan gasped and shuddered, hips stuttering out of rhythm as he came. His internal clenching brought Gregor over the edge with him. Below them, Laisa made a pleased noise, and brought a hand up to smooth back Ivan’s hair.

As the aftershocks faded, Gregor moved to disentangle himself from Ivan. They both collapsed in a heap next to Laisa, just far enough away not to crush her with their combined weight. None of them moved for a long minute.

“We should probably clean up a bit,” Gregor murmured into the back of Ivan’s shoulder.

“Mm,” said Laisa sleepily. “Later.”

Ivan made a noise of agreement. His eyes drifted shut, and he burrowed into Laisa’s chest. Her hand came up to card lightly through his hair. As Gregor watched, their breathing deepened, and they slipped off together into sleep.

Gregor propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at the two of them. They made a lovely picture together, sleepy and sated, blonde curls next to dark. He found himself full of a bone-deep satisfaction, a warmth of happiness that spread all the way to his fingertips, and outward across the bed. 

Before Laisa - had it only been a year and a half? - he had worried that the sort of personal intimacy that he had watched sustain his Guardians’ marriage might forever be beyond him. He had been almost ready to settle for some politically acceptable choice, trading a chance at happiness for the consolation prize of mere contentment. And now he had this. He had thought it daring to hope for one person who would love him enough to share his private moments, to brave the circus around the campstool to approach him as a person - and now, it seemed, he might have two. From a drought to an embarrassment of riches.

On the wings of this unlooked-for lovely thought, Gregor drew the sheet up around them all, moving back to join his lovers under it. He curled himself around Ivan, reached over to smooth Laisa’s hair from her face, and then, for once, he had no trouble drifting off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies to the horticulturists of this fandom for any inadvertent botanical butchery I may have wrought in the garden scene, and to those with any tailoring expertise for Laisa’s inexplicable dress. 
> 
> My butchery of ballroom dance, however, comes with no apology whatsoever (even though, yes, I know the waltz was initially the scandalous one, and the actual mazurka was a quadrille and not even a couple’s dance), because you know what, the likelihood of a planet colonized by 23rd-century Russians faithfully reinventing 19th-century dances, much less calling them by those names, is uh, slim, so I’m just going to take some narrative license.


End file.
